


Happy Birthday, Red

by iamthececimonster



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, M/M, No Angst, just cheesy happy fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthececimonster/pseuds/iamthececimonster
Summary: It's Ian's birthday. Mickey wants to do something special, but what can he possibly do?One Shot
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 21
Kudos: 137





	Happy Birthday, Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadlymilkovich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlymilkovich/gifts).



> This was written for @deadlymilkovich, for his birthday. It's a day late. I'm a trash disaster, it's really fine. Anyway, happy birthday my friend! 
> 
> Was this proofread? Kinda sorta maybe? Not really? All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I don't own these characters. I do own being a huge dork and making a mug cake and putting a candle in it and then taking a video of yourself singing happy birthday because nobody can leave their houses and it's your friend's birthday and you want to make it a little bit better than it was. I'm a sap, it's fine.

It’s Ian’s birthday. Mickey knew this before he even opened his eyes in the morning, knew exactly what day it was. There was this sinking feeling in his gut about it, because he had to go to work probably before Ian was fully awake, they’re broke as fuck - after all the bills, Ian’s meds, and Frannie breaking her arm falling out of a fuckin’ tree (where the fuck that child got the idea she should climb a tree was beyond him for fuckin’ sure), they had almost no money left over for the month. Mickey had originally had this idea of taking Ian out for dinner to Sizzlers, even dressin’ up fancy and shit. But both of them were workin’ so much overtime just to make sure they had enough for groceries at the end of the week that the idea had been scrapped. 

So it’s Ian’s birthday, and Mickey didn’t really know how birthdays work - they weren’t exactly a thing Milkoviches celebrated, and the only reason Ian knew his birthday was because of Mandy’s loud fuckin’ mouth - but he’s pretty damn sure he should do something other than wake Ian up with a particularly spectacular blow job. But even as Ian was giving him a sloppy, sated, sleepy kiss and mumbling his “I love you” against Mickey’s mouth to thank him, Mickey couldn’t help but feel the sinking lead of self loathing because Ian deserved so much more than this. So much more than what Mickey had to offer. 

Mickey shook himself away from those thoughts, because, dammit, self loathing does not get the bills paid, no matter how often he’s tried. He showered, quickly, before the water’s really hot enough to be comfortable, and wondered what he could do instead. They’ve got a dinner planned for Friday night at the Gallagher house, with the entire fuckin’ clan (minus Fiona and plus Mandy probably if she could get there in time). Debs would probably bake some abomination of a cake or something, but Mickey couldn’t shake the feeling that he should do something _today_ , something special, something just for the two of them. 

He took extra care with breakfast, bringing it to Ian in bed with his coffee - black, he’s not really sure how anyone drinks it like that - and his meds. Ian shuffled a bit, squinted through his sleep at Mickey, fully dressed and ready for work. 

“Time’sit?” Ian slurred out.

“Time to get the fuck up, sleepyface.” Mickey grunted, trying for gruff and missing by about the length of 600 football fields. 

“You brought me breakfast?” Ian asked, pointlessly, shifting so he’s sitting upright. 

Mickey shifted from foot to foot, feeling foolish standing there with toaster waffles and coffee. He put the coffee down on the rickety nightstand. “‘S fuckin’ look like, princess?”

“Why?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, shoved the plate at Ian, and hid his smile by pressing a kiss to the top of his husband’s stupid head. “Happy birthday, Firecrotch.”

“Oh!” Ian smiled down at the waffles and syrup. “Thanks, Mick.” He reached up with one hand, grabbed Mickey by the neck, and pulled him in for a kiss. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Mickey fished the pills out of his pocket. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Ian took them in his hand. “Love you.” 

“Love you too. See you tonight?”

“Yeah.”

It sat with Mickey for the rest of the day. He knew he was scowling at everyone at work, gruff and annoyed, and he was pretty sure his boss knew why but had enough self preservation not to say anything. It didn’t feel like enough. If Ian had ended up with one of those rich fucks that used to chase after him when they were kids, he’d’ve been able to take the day off, be showered in all sorts of new and fancy things. No matter how often Ian insisted he didn’t give a shit about any of that, that he didn’t _want_ those things, the tiny voice in Mickey’s head telling him how absolutely trash he was started screaming at times like this. 

Finally, his shift’s over, and the half shift he’s working for his coworker because that guy had to go pick up his kid and deal with some shit having to do with lawyers and the kid’s shithead of a mother, and it was a whole ordeal that made Mickey really fuckin’ thankful that Svet was a halfway reasonable human being when she wasn’t scaring the shit out of everyone. The guy had looked like he was going to rip his hair out when he got the call about it, so Mickey had offered to take the first half of his shift so he could deal with whatever the fuck that was. Then the guy had looked like he was going to cry. Anyway, he went to go clock out. His boss waved him into the room before he got a chance to leave.

“Yeah?” Mickey asked, trying to arrange his face into an appropriately passive face. 

Craig was a little guy, smaller than Mickey probably, but somehow his presence always seemed to take up every room he was in. 

“Milkovich, listen.” He started, carefully. “He wouldn’t’ve married you if he didn’t love you. Exactly the way you are. He doesn’t give a shit about grand gestures or fancy dinners or expensive gifts or whatever the fuck else. He gives a shit about you.”

Mickey chewed his thumb nail. “Yeah, but…”

“Nope.” Craig shook his head. “No but.”

“God you are such a dad, man.”

“Yeah, my kids say the same thing…” The man smiled slightly, scratching at his goatee. It left a streak of grease across his cheek. “But I’m serious, man.”

Mickey took a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

“Get the hell outta here.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, gave a mock salute, and walked out the door. He shouted a gruff goodbye to the shop at large, and got two half grunts back in return. 

On the way home, he stopped in the corner store nearest their place that sold his preferred brand of cigarettes cheap as fuck. The lady who ran the joint reminded him of Linda in the least unpleasant way possible, and there was no Kash, which helped. He decided to pick up some of Ian’s favorite snacks, and as he was walking down the aisle deciding what to spend the little money they had on, he spotted a small, battered red box with what looked like a birthday cake in a mug. He picked it up, remembering the conversation he’d had a few weeks ago with one of his coworkers. She’d complained about how her kid had heard about these “mug cakes” from someone at school and now she kept experimenting with making her own and it was a whole mess. But Mickey figured even he could figure out how to mix ingredients in a mug and put them in a microwave. So he picked up the box, and a tube of BBQ pringles that were on sale. He brought them to the counter. 

Not-Linda looked up from her papers at him. “Mickey.”

“Hey.” He shifted for a second. “Hey, uh. You got any candles in this joint? Like, uh. For birthdays?”

Not-Linda blinked for a second, apparently thinking. “Wait here.” She held up one finger at him and dashed away from the counter. 

Mickey stood there, brow furrowed, chewing on his thumbnail, wondering where the fuck she’d gone. Just as he was about to abandon the entire thing, she returned, slightly out of breath but smiling. In her hand, she clutched a single, bright green birthday candle. 

“Uh.” She looked a little sheepish, suddenly. “Well, so. We had an extra from my son’s last birthday.”

Mickey looked down at the thin candle in her hand, and bit his lip to stop from smiling. “Yeah, alright. Thanks.” He coughed slightly. “Uh, and a pack of smokes.”

She rang up his purchases, handed him the cigarettes, and put the rest of it in a bag. He slipped the single candle in his shirt pocket so it wouldn’t get destroyed, and nodded to her on his way out. She smiled slightly. 

When Mickey got home, he groaned at the clock. Ian wasn’t expected home until after 10, and it was only nearly 8. He dumped everything on the kitchen table, pulling out a mug and carefully depositing the candle from his pocket into the mug. He considered eating dinner first, but the grit under his nails and all over his skin was making him itch now that he was home, so he decided on a shower. Slow and methodical, with all the hot water he had never been afforded as a child, Mickey took a shower. He scrubbed every inch of his skin, taking care to get as much of the “car crap,” as Mandy called it, out from under his fingernails as he could. He washed his hair with the shampoo Ian bought, and just stood there for a while, letting hot water and soap suds wash over him, as he thought over his boss’s words, about all the times Ian had told him how much he loved him, all of it. He got out of the now-cold shower and dried off. He wandered back to the kitchen in shorts and a tank top. 

He pulled some leftover spaghetti out of the fridge, and hummed tunelessly as he waited for it to heat up. As he finished his dinner, he turned the TV on. A Steven Segal movie was just starting, and Mickey smiled, thinking of him and Ian, young and dumb and feeling invincible. Back when the only way he knew how to have a conversation was to argue, and Ian knew that, so arguing felt like flirting, and the smirk across Ian’s freckled face felt like falling in love, or dying, or something. 

He took a picture of the screen with Steven Segal front and center, and sent it to Ian with the caption, “Powerful fuckin’ ponytail.”

The movie’s credits screen was rolling by the time his phone buzzed again. Not exactly uncommon when Ian was working, and Mickey was terrible at texting at the best of times, so it never bothered him. 

Several laughing emojis started the text. “Van Double DAMME,” Ian’s text read. 

Mickey started to chuckle, then the phone rang. Ian’s picture flashed across the screen. 

“Hey, you good?” Mickey asked without preamble. 

“Yeah, we just got a call though.”

“Fuck, man.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be home late.” Ian sounded truly upset about this. In the background, he could hear Ian’s partner barking orders to someone. 

Mickey thought about the box of mug cakes on the counter. “Hey, listen, it’s fine. I’ll be here when you get back, don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah.” Ian’s voice sounded wistful. “Just wish I was there now.”

Mickey felt his throat constrict. “Yeah, me too.”

“Gallagher!” Mickey could just hear Sue bark out. “As truly adorable as this is, we gotta go man.”

“Yeah alright.” Ian responded. Mickey could practically hear his eye roll. 

“Go, Red. Stay safe.”

“I will. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Mickey tossed his phone down on the sofa and scrubbed his hands down his face. He brought the dish from his dinner to the kitchen, washed it, and poured himself a glass of water. He figured he should actually test to make sure he was actually capable of making these stupid mug cakes so he didn’t make the microwave explode when he went to make Ian’s. And the box said it came with enough for 4 cakes, so he had a few tries to mess up. 

Mickey carefully read the directions, and then read them again. They didn’t have any measuring spoons, so he used a regular spoon and hoped that would be fine. He stirred the mess of powder, water, and sprinkles together, and put it in the microwave. After a minute and ten seconds, he pulled out the very hot mug and stared at it. It looked like cake, it smelled like cake. There wasn’t a lot of it, so he figured he’d just do two at once when he made Ian’s so it didn’t look so pitiful. Without waiting for it to cool, Mickey dug his spoon in and scooped out a too large bite. He breathed out hard when it started to burn his mouth, but it tasted like cake, if a little off. He brought it back to the sofa, and watched whatever classic movie was coming on next. Something Mickey had never heard of called Smokey and the Bandit. 

He actually got into it a bit. It was just car chase scenes, and the main guy had a helluva mustache. It would look absurd on anyone Mickey knew, but it was still pretty cool. Besides, what Mickey wouldn’t give to get his hands on that Trans Am. So he ate the rest of the cake, rolled his eyes at the scenes where the Bandit was making out with that brunette, and laughed at the truck driver’s dog. 

The first commercials following the movie were just starting when Ian called again. Mickey muted the TV and picked up on the second ring. 

“Hey Mick,” Ian said, sounding tired. 

“Hey,” Mickey responded. 

“I’m getting on the L now.” 

“See you soon.”

“Yeah.” Mickey could hear his smile as he hung up.

Mickey had that trip, the one Ian took from the station back to their front door, timed to the second practically (not that he’d admit that to literally anyone). So he washed the mug out in the sink, dried it with a towel, and cleaned up around a bit. It wasn’t a long trip, just a couple of stops, so Mickey had to start mixing up the little cake pretty soon. It was a little harder with two packets, but the mug was pretty big so he wasn’t too worried. He put in the microwave when Ian had less than five minutes. He’d be getting off the train and walking towards their shithole apartment now. Mickey turned the TV off. The only light was the dim one from the kitchen. 

As Mickey stuck the candle in the cake, he heard the key in the lock. It always stuck, you had to jiggle it just right. The door opened, and Mickey took the lighter from his pocket to light the candle, very nearly burning himself in the process. 

“Mick?” He heard Ian call, heard his husband dropping his bag by the door and shoving his shoes off. 

“Yeah, in the kitchen.”

Ian walked across the floor. Mickey could feel his heart in his throat. _You are enough,_ He reminded himself, internally. 

When Ian turned the corner into the kitchen, he stopped still, eyes wide and bright, smile slowly spreading across his face. 

Mickey chewed on his lip for a second. “Happy birthday, Ian.” He said softly. 

That seemed to shock Ian out of his stupor, and he rushed towards Mickey, grabbing him by the face and kissing him, long and hard. Finally, Mickey wiggled free. 

“You gonna make a wish?” He gestured towards the burning candle, not raising his voice. 

“Don’t need to. Got everything I ever wanted right here.” Ian said, barely a whisper, clinging to Mickey’s hip. 

Mickey rolled his eyes. Ian leaned over to blow out the candle before it dripped all over the cake. 

“I’m serious, Mick.” He grinned, big and bright, and Mickey was pretty sure his heart was going to explode. 

“I know. Happy fuckin’ birthday, Red. Eat your damn cake.”

Ian laughed out loud, and grabbed for a spoon, dragging Mickey to sit down with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments give me life. They are my lifeforce. Please, I beg of you!!!!! (I've been inside my apartment for too long. Send help)
> 
> And if you wanted to comment to wish DeadlyMilkovich a happy birthday, that'd be super dope!


End file.
